


Knowing Better

by flybynight



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flybynight/pseuds/flybynight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England has her doubts sometimes, every now and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowing Better

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dying to write lately, and this idea has been rolling around in my head for many, many months. I'm not 100% satisfied with it honestly, I don't think I quite captured what I wanted to, but as it is, it's... more or less complete. Cliches and all! 
> 
> Setting is sometime during the late 1950s. Rating is T for suggestive themes. Would have been M, but I'm so out of practice! lol Also, apologies if anyone loses any teeth, sap is pretty much my best friend. 
> 
> Anyway, hope someone likes, and I love comments.

England happened to know a lot of things. She grew up having to fend for herself, to fight for survival from the moment she drew her first breath, struggling with her own wild nature and with those that surrounded her. She also knew how to learn, each loss and scar she bore was proof of her lessons-- she wore them with careful pride, because without them, she would not have grown. She would not have been able to last among her equally steadfast brothers who sought to consume her, and she would have fallen long ago to those across the seas that longed to have her as well. England knew better, and  _was_  better for it.

But she also knew ways of the civilized world, beyond the fighting. Men and their nations continued to bleed and strike out against one another, it was likely that would never change. But during those hours of peace and prosperity, as seemingly short and fleeting as they were, England also learned. Nations were not humans, so it was not as though she had to uphold any particular standards beyond what was generally expected of her, but that did not mean she didn't know how. She knew how to be a  _lady_ , about propriety and modesty, or at least what it was supposed to mean at the time. Even in her privateer days when she was almost as free and wild as those days in her ancient wildernesses, and even as she traded in her corset for a cutlass, England was tempered and shaped by the thoughts and desires of her people.

And England knew concepts like love and hate, loathing and desire, just as anyone else did. And though it had taken quite a few centuries and decades to find someone who instilled all those things and more within her, it had been--to be perfectly cliche--worth the wait. It was not survival or another war to be won. Loving, being with America, was not easy, but it was part of living. It was the path she chose, though sometimes she felt it was no more of a choice than breathing, as from the moment she saw America in those fields of blue, gold, and green, her heart was no longer her own.

So now, now as the world continued to turn, to learn and grow itself, so too did all nations. They could all afford to be a little indulgent, now that they were older, wiser-- well, some of them. But not too much. After the second world war and peace came round again, England did some soul searching. She was still recovering, still worn but not withered away. But she had time now. Time to live and work and breathe. Time to really look at herself. 

Perhaps she was trying to impress him, a little, now that they were no longer crammed together in trenches or arguing strategies and trading secrets. Perhaps she wanted to show him the side of her that he had not been able to see, not when he scarcely came up to her knee, or even when he'd pointed a gun at her face. She wanted America to desire her like he would anyone else,  _more_ than anyone else.

That had been the plan, anyway.

_Ladies are always proper. Ladies are always well-kept._

_Put on a little lipstick, at least_ , France had said to her not too long ago, after telling her in no uncertain terms that she was about as desirable as a burlap sack. It was not the first time he'd said as much in their long, complicated acquaintance. Not that it had ever stopped him from trying to get in her pants or under her skirts or whatever she happened to be wearing at the time, the lying bastard. He and all the others, with every attempt to put her in her place or lay claim based on archaic principles, made her that much more weary and loathe to such things. It didn't matter what he, they, thought-- but it mattered quite a bit what America thought, which was why she was bothering to make the effort, even if she told herself she wasn't, not really.

England knew what it meant to be a "woman" in every century she'd been sentient, and now was no exception. She didn't agree with it always, she certainly had her own strong opinions on things. Woe to any man, king or lesser, who dared tell her what she could and could  _not_  do. England had never tried to be anything but what she was, but just now-- just for tonight, just this once-- she wanted to be beautiful. Or what the world thought was beautiful. 

America was coming over for dinner. Their first real night alone in a very long time, and the first one since he'd been in London for several weeks for diplomatic song and dance and quite a lot of handshakes and paper signing.

So she folded away her uniform and trousers and slipped into a new dress from Harrods, simple and modest but pretty. Floral print. She let her hair down from its sensible bun, slipped on a pair of shiny red heels and little bits of jewelry. She even put on the damned lipstick, despite how heavy it felt on her lips, and the light makeup made her feel like even more of a ghost. She didn't cover up her freckles, since America told her he liked them.

But standing in the mirror, she bit her tongue and tried not to think about how much she did not recognize herself. It wasn't the pleasant sort of revelation.

That done, she attempted dinner, which let it never be said that England didn't try, because she always did. A roast and potatoes and some other sort of vegetable that America probably wouldn't eat anyway-- it shouldn't have been that difficult, because it wasn't, and England was fully competent in many areas. It couldn't be helped that, between attempting to clean her already spotless home and do all of it in completely insensible footwear, she forgot to check on it, and blackened meat and dry potatoes was what she was left with.

At least the wine was still good, which was all England wanted anymore anyway by the time she heard a car pull up. She had her face in her hands, thankful she'd forgone the mascara as well (she had to be thankful for  _something_ ), when America slammed open the door with his usual gusto and a smile before he sniffed the air.

"Is something burning?"

"Oh god..." England muttered, standing up and storming past him. America muttered something like 'of course something's burning here, what a stupid question' before following her and grabbing her around the waist to kiss the back of her neck before she could escape to another room or perhaps a deep open hole somewhere.

"Hey, what's wrong-- woah, are you wearing perfume?"

"Bugger off!" she hissed like a wild cat, turning around in his arms to fix him with the complete opposite expression of what she'd planned. She wasn't going to kid herself and attempt purity and light, but she had wanted to be pleasant. Not irritable and vicious, America had seen that enough times.

But America was also capable, and he just looked at her, minding her claws as he pulled back a little to look her over from head to toe. She couldn't tell if it was appreciative or not, her mind was on other things. Like the fact that he was wearing a suit,  _of all things_ , and it was likely he'd boarded his airplane all fresh faced and clean pressed and wearing a bloody  _tie_ , ready to greet her in all his lovely youth and perfection. She wanted to hate him for it, because he made it look so easy. There were no expectations for him, no one to tell him what was proper (well, her aside, but it wasn't as though he listened to her anyway, stupid boy) or what was desirable. He didn't even have to try.

"What's the occasion?" he asked, his eyes finally meeting hers again. They were wide and questioning. Not pleased, or impressed. Surprised. 

_Why did she even bother?_

"It doesn't matter. If you want food, it's in the kitchen."

"I don't think I'm hungry."

"You're an insufferable liar. You're always hungry," she hissed, and he dared to laugh and kiss at the corner of her red lips. She let him, because it was impossible not to.

America took her hands and led her over to the settee, still wrapped around her like he could never let go, and asked for a proper kiss. England glared at him but obliged, his gentle touches quelling fires while stoking others to life, until his hand was on her waist and hers was on his face, stroking his cheek with the words  _I missed you, darling_  in her heart and in her touches, but she didn't dare speak.

"So," he said after a moment, another kiss and a breath later, "it's been like, almost a month? Is that why you're all dolled up?"

"I'm not 'dolled up'," she said, and promptly slapped his hands away for good measure. "I was trying to cook a roast, and--"

"In  _that_  get up?" America asked, insultingly incredulous.

"I told you, it doesn't matter!"

America was silent then, looking her over again before glancing at the kitchen, as if he could just see the mess from where he was. Which he couldn't, but America always had been an imaginative boy. Clueless and perceptive all at once. It was that perception she was dreading, because when he looked back at her, it was written all over his face.

She quickly stood up, smoothing out the lines of her pretty, modest little dress. "I know I look  _awful_ , you don't have to rub it in."

"Aw, that's not what I'm saying at all."

England tensed up when he stood as well, again grabbing her before she could escape.

"I'm asking why. I've never seen you,  _like this_ , before."

"Because perhaps I wanted to look nice for once! Why is that such an absurd concept to people-- to you."

"But you always look nice!" America replied, and though there was inevitably a bit of cheek there, the way he trailed his fingers through her hair was sincere. She pushed him away regardless. They kept at it a few more minutes, America desperately trying to tease and being rebuffed. He finally gave up in lieu of ending up with a broken nose for all his trouble. She punched him anyway, but her heart wasn't in it, and he hardly felt it.

"Grab me again, and I will be sending you back across the pond with no arms."

"Oh England, you know  _just_  how to talk to a guy."

The sarcasm stung. Normally it wouldn't, not really, America was always saying things like that, just like everyone else did. But with her ruined attempts to be something she wasn't, something she was certain she didn't have in her, and how it was all the more frustrating that she even  _wanted_  such a thing... it made her tense up in his arms until the smile fell from his face and he stroked a finger down her cheek, sitting down and pulling her right onto his lap. 

"Hey," he said softly, turning her face towards his, "honey, what's the matter?"

Honey was sweet. England was decidedly not. 

She looked into his stupidly sincere eyes, and felt it all crack a little bit more. She didn't want to talk about it, not right now. Not while she was on his lap and he was so very close and smelled wonderful. She didn't respond, and simply shoved him back against the cushions. America made a little 'oof' sound, which she promptly cut off by pressing their mouths together and stealing the words right off his tongue. 

He laughed through it a little. "E-England-- hey,  _wait_ \--"

"What do you want?" she demanded, nipping at his bottom lip harshly. 

He searched her face for a moment, and England faltered a bit. 

"I want  _you_ ," he then whispered against her throat, smiling when she trembled a little. She dug her fingers into his shoulders with a gasp, before brushing her lips across his jaw.

"You're entirely too well-behaved this evening," she said with suspicion, tempered a bit by honest affection. America had learned what buttons to push from day one, and it was always prudent to be cautious, even if she didn't ever want him to change.

He chuckled. "S'been a long day. A long couple of months. And well, you're being real cute right now-- ah, no biting! It was a compliment!"

"No it wasn't," she said, dragging her teeth up from his neck to his ear. He hissed, but didn't complain, instead tightening his hold on her hips and bringing them closer together. She rubbed up against him a little longer until their lips met again, and America seemed to come to some sort of decision, lifting her from his lap and turning to set her down on the couch. She leaned back, eyebrow quirked in curiosity, to which he answered with a promise in his smile and went down to his knees.

England watched him, lashes fluttering as he lifted one of her legs, fingers curling almost delicately around the back of the heel and smoothing over her ankle. He kissed the glossy tip of the shoe before removing it all together, pressing another kiss to her painted-at-the-last-moment toes and moving steadily upward until he reached her knee. He then did the same to the other leg, and England shoved away the damnable footwear lest someone trip over it later.

When his head disappeared beneath her skirts, she immediately became aware of every sound, every sensation. His kisses continued to pepper across her skin, gentle and teasing and with a bit of tongue as he found his way between her thighs, breath hot and wanting. Her toes curled in anticipation and she wasn't aware that she had started to tremble and make embarrassing noises under her breath until he smoothed his hands down her legs and peeked out, grinning up at her with such  _cheek_. 

England stared back, not amused or impressed.

"Get on with it, darling," she commanded softly, to which America replied 'yes  _ma'am_ ' entirely too cheerfully and so quickly when he ducked his head and disappeared again. She didn't think much after that.

Later she realized it was warmer in her room. England had had some trouble walking on jelly legs after their interlude on the settee, but she would be damned if she let America carry her. He whistled and kissed the stubborn look off her face, and they both stumbled until they got where they needed to go, which was just as well. They fell into bed and she pulled him on top of her, desperate for him to make her forget again. Forget her smudged make up, forget the ruined dinner sitting in ashes upon the stove, forget her age, her weaknesses, and everything else.

America obliged of course, even if there was a question in all his touches and kisses, the unasked 'why's going unanswered in the midst of gasps and moans as she did her very best to distract him as well. His exuberance was enough, matched evenly with her own desire to show him that she may not have been one of his Hollywood starlets or the paradigm of feminine grace from any decade, but she could still make him cry out  _her_  name, drawing every breathless and loving 'England' from his lips like her life depended on it.

They finished two rounds, and England had always found sex to be terribly therapeutic, save for that glowing silence afterwards with her thoughts swirling about. Such openness and vulnerability gave way to old fears and anxieties. America wasn't looking at her, and she wanted him to. The sweat wasn't even dry yet on their skin and her heartbeat had yet to slow, but she found herself unable to hold it in any longer. 

"I just wanted to be attractive to you," England blurted out suddenly, twisting her fingers in the sheets. 

America made a questioning noise. She took a breath. "I'm old, America, you know that--"

"Wait, what?" he turned his head, clearly wanting to laugh. "I know I give you a hard time sometimes, but--"

"No, it's true," she said, twisting fingers coming up to rest on her stomach, fitted together anxiously. "And I admit that, given the circumstances, given our history, given  _history itself_..."

"England?" 

He sounded completely confused. She didn't let that deter her. 

Another breath. "I realize it's daft, but sometimes I see the way you-- that everyone looks at the women in those magazines and in your movies and even before such things, it's always been this way. I've always wondered if perhaps I was not... well, I've just never-- I'm sorry I ruined dinner. I made a mess of things tonight. But I've never felt that I was quite what people expect me to be--"

There was a full beat of silence after such a rambling outburst, completely unlike her, and she hadn't meant for it to all sound as utterly stupid as it had. America shifted beside her, turning onto his side, and she waited for the inevitable laughter or denials or--

_Silly woman with silly, frivolous thoughts._

But England wasn't really a "woman", anymore than America was a "man". Not in those terms, not by anyone's definition. So it shouldn't have mattered. Right? She wanted to believe such things. Wanted to. 

He didn't say anything more for a handful of seconds, and she wondered what was going on in that wonderfully terrible, brilliant mind of his. While she waited, she took in the loveliness of his youthful face without his glasses, without the trappings of the weary world that surrounded them. Without all their expectations. So much stronger, not much wiser, but she'd never trust her heart with anyone less.

Especially when his eyes seemed to say,  _I get it_.  

"I don't know..." he actually said, resting his head against her breast and her heartbeat against his ear, "how you could think I'd want anything but what you are. But if you need me to remind you, all you gotta do is say so, England."

"I don't need--"

"But I  _want_  you. Always have," he continued, sweeping his calloused hand down her body tenderly as he spoke, "when you're bitching at me to fix my tie or boxing my ears or when you're kicking my ass or somebody else's ..."

England snorted softly, but America continued, nothing but warmth in his tone.

"When you're calling me 'lovely' and 'dearest'..." he whispered, "I like you now and I like you then. And that's all that matters, right?" 

All that matters. Simplistic, and so very America.

She didn't argue with him about that. She was sure if she tried, the words might get stuck somewhere between a sob, and sometimes it really was easier just not to talk, but to listen.

 _Be seen and not heard_ , as all good ladies knew. She'd never cared for that rot, and she never would.

But still, just this once, England closed her eyes and just smiled, almost imperceptibly. America kissed the gentle curve of her lips and she finally felt beautiful. 


End file.
